to contact someone, to let them know you’re safe. Your wife for example—”
“I’m not married!”
Rosy sat on the side of the bed. “You are. I saw your wife at the hospital. She’s the beautiful Lily Richards, isn’t she?”
“She’s dead.”
Rosy gaped, horrified. “What?” She sat back. Had there been a sudden, ghastly tragedy? She hadn’t read a newspaper in days, or listened to, or watched the news. Had something awful happened while she’s been busy packing books, shopping and agonizing over her guilt?
“Dead to me.”
“That’s a stupid thing to say.”
“Believe me, it’s the only way I can go forward.”
“But, she’s pregnant.”
“And she is not beautiful, trust me.”
“Marco,” she took care with her words, “look, I know you’re not feeling yourself. You’ve been concussed and you’re in a lot of pain—”
“Leave me alone,” he murmured. “Please…”
“No, I won’t. Be reasonable. You’re in my house, in my bed . I think I have a right—”
“Christ, woman, drop it. Go away.”
“Excuse me? I won’t. The least you can do, is to—” Rosy stopped talking. His eyelids drooped and shut, his head sagged to the side, and his mouth softened.
She leaned closer. “Marco?” It was as good as speaking to a rock. She watched the even rise and fall of the quilt over his chest. He hadn’t fallen asleep as much as crashed instantly, exhausted by pain, anxiety and stress. Come to think of it, his eyes had been glazed and his speech slurred. She considered him for a moment, and then picked up the container of capsules he’d said were pain medication. This time she studied the label in detail and found one word she did understand— dormir , to sleep, and there was something else she understood ‘X 1’.
Oh God . She’d knocked him out with a quadruple dose of sleeping pills.
“Marco!”
Nothing. She needed help, fast. What if she’d made him really ill? Or what, God forbid, if she had drugged him into a coma, or killed him? Sedating a person who’d been concussed could be fatal, surely?
“Marco,” she yelled. “Wake up!”
She reached out to shake him by the shoulder, but thought better of it, quelling the panic. Four capsules couldn’t hurt him, or could they? Yes, she decided. She glanced at his phone, still in her hand. Locked with a password. A fat lot of good that was. She threw it down on the bedside table and rushed from the room. She’d phone a local pharmacist, or Frederick’s doctor.
Surely, please God, there was an emergency number somewhere?
Chapter Seventeen
Man, he felt good. This was better than morphine. Warm, at last, and way more comfortable in this bed than the plank he’d been lying on in the clinic. Whatzername had chattered on but he couldn’t concentrate and...had he imagined it, or had she shouted his name? He’d meant to answer, he had, but he’d been busy. Busy falling, floating down to land in the softness of this wonderful place.
She got up. He felt the mattress move. Pity she wasn’t staying. Real pity, and he was too far gone to ask her to remain. Was he dying? Or dead? Cosy, relaxed and pain-free, he felt like he’d come to the end of a journey, longer and more troublesome than the Dakar Rally on an underpowered scrambler, but, funny, he couldn’t remember that journey, couldn’t remember...
He fell further, her smell all around him. It had developed rich, woody tones in the warmth of the house. He went deeper, drifted and disappeared, wrapped in her arms, blissed out.
***
Rosy scrabbled in the drawers of the desk in Frederick’s study and came up triumphant with a laminated sheet of emergency numbers. Thank God Frederick had been old-fashioned. Ricky’s number topped the list. Ricky, of course, would know what to do. He was a nurse. Surely he wouldn’t mind coming over and giving her a hand.
Ricky, at first awestruck at the news that Rosy had the real, live Marco Dallariva in her house,
“I’m not married!”
Rosy sat on the side of the bed. “You are. I saw your wife at the hospital. She’s the beautiful Lily Richards, isn’t she?”
“She’s dead.”
Rosy gaped, horrified. “What?” She sat back. Had there been a sudden, ghastly tragedy? She hadn’t read a newspaper in days, or listened to, or watched the news. Had something awful happened while she’s been busy packing books, shopping and agonizing over her guilt?
“Dead to me.”
“That’s a stupid thing to say.”
“Believe me, it’s the only way I can go forward.”
“But, she’s pregnant.”
“And she is not beautiful, trust me.”
“Marco,” she took care with her words, “look, I know you’re not feeling yourself. You’ve been concussed and you’re in a lot of pain—”
“Leave me alone,” he murmured. “Please…”
“No, I won’t. Be reasonable. You’re in my house, in my bed . I think I have a right—”
“Christ, woman, drop it. Go away.”
“Excuse me? I won’t. The least you can do, is to—” Rosy stopped talking. His eyelids drooped and shut, his head sagged to the side, and his mouth softened.
She leaned closer. “Marco?” It was as good as speaking to a rock. She watched the even rise and fall of the quilt over his chest. He hadn’t fallen asleep as much as crashed instantly, exhausted by pain, anxiety and stress. Come to think of it, his eyes had been glazed and his speech slurred. She considered him for a moment, and then picked up the container of capsules he’d said were pain medication. This time she studied the label in detail and found one word she did understand— dormir , to sleep, and there was something else she understood ‘X 1’.
Oh God . She’d knocked him out with a quadruple dose of sleeping pills.
“Marco!”
Nothing. She needed help, fast. What if she’d made him really ill? Or what, God forbid, if she had drugged him into a coma, or killed him? Sedating a person who’d been concussed could be fatal, surely?
“Marco,” she yelled. “Wake up!”
She reached out to shake him by the shoulder, but thought better of it, quelling the panic. Four capsules couldn’t hurt him, or could they? Yes, she decided. She glanced at his phone, still in her hand. Locked with a password. A fat lot of good that was. She threw it down on the bedside table and rushed from the room. She’d phone a local pharmacist, or Frederick’s doctor.
Surely, please God, there was an emergency number somewhere?
Chapter Seventeen
Man, he felt good. This was better than morphine. Warm, at last, and way more comfortable in this bed than the plank he’d been lying on in the clinic. Whatzername had chattered on but he couldn’t concentrate and...had he imagined it, or had she shouted his name? He’d meant to answer, he had, but he’d been busy. Busy falling, floating down to land in the softness of this wonderful place.
She got up. He felt the mattress move. Pity she wasn’t staying. Real pity, and he was too far gone to ask her to remain. Was he dying? Or dead? Cosy, relaxed and pain-free, he felt like he’d come to the end of a journey, longer and more troublesome than the Dakar Rally on an underpowered scrambler, but, funny, he couldn’t remember that journey, couldn’t remember...
He fell further, her smell all around him. It had developed rich, woody tones in the warmth of the house. He went deeper, drifted and disappeared, wrapped in her arms, blissed out.
***
Rosy scrabbled in the drawers of the desk in Frederick’s study and came up triumphant with a laminated sheet of emergency numbers. Thank God Frederick had been old-fashioned. Ricky’s number topped the list. Ricky, of course, would know what to do. He was a nurse. Surely he wouldn’t mind coming over and giving her a hand.
Ricky, at first awestruck at the news that Rosy had the real, live Marco Dallariva in her house,
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